“So, uh…anyway…” said Isaac. “I’m here, to be frank, to ask your help.”

“Oh ho.”

“Yeah…See, I’m working on something that’s a bit off my track…I’m more of a theoretician than a practical researcher, you know…”

“Yes…” Vermishank’s voice dripped an indiscriminate irony.

You ratfuck, thought Isaac. I gave you that for free…

“Right,” he said slowly. “Well, this is…I mean this could be, though I doubt it…a problem of bio-thaumaturgy. I wanted to ask your professional opinion.”

“Ah ha.”

“Yes. What I wanted to know was…can someone be Remade to fly?”

“Ooh.” Vermishank leaned back and dabbed soup from around his mouth with bread. Briefly, he wore a moustache of crumbs. He clasped his hands in front of him and waggled his fat fingers. “Fly, eh?”

Vermishank’s voice picked up an air of excitement previously lacking in his cold tones. He may have wanted to sting Isaac with his heavy contempt, but he could not help being enthused by problems of science.

“Yeah. I mean, has that been done?” said Isaac.

“Yes…It has been done…” Vermishank nodded slowly without taking his eyes from Isaac, who sat up in his chair and snatched a notebook from his pocket.

“Oh, has it?” said Isaac.

Vermishank’s eyes lost focus as he thought harder.

“Yes…Why, Isaac? Has someone come to you and asked to fly?”

“I really can’t…uh, divulge…”

“Of course you can’t, Isaac. Of course you can’t. Because you are a professional. And I respect you for that.” Vermishank smiled idly at his guest.

“So…what were the details?” ventured Isaac. He set his teeth before he spoke, to control his shaking indignation. Fuck you, you patronizing game-playing pig, he thought furiously.

“Oh ho…Well…” Isaac twisted with impatience as Vermishank raised his head ponderously to remember. “There was a bio-philosopher, years ago, at the end of the last century. Calligine, name of. Had himself Remade.” Vermishank smiled fondly and cruelly and shook his head. “Mad thing, really, but it did seem to work. Huge mechanical wings that unfolded like fans. He wrote a pamphlet about it.” Vermishank strained his head over his lardy shoulder, glanced vaguely at the shelves of volumes that covered his walls. He waved with a limp hand that could have signalled anything at all about the whereabouts of Calligine’s pamphlet. “Don’t you know the rest? Not heard the song?” Isaac narrowed his eyes quizzically. Appallingly, Vermishank sang a few bars in a reedy tenor. “So Cally flew high | On um-ber-ella wings | Headed into the sky | Waved his love bye-bye | Went West with a sigh | Disappeared in the land of the Horrible Things…”

“Of course I’ve heard that!” said Isaac. “I never knew it was about someone real…”

“Well, you never took Introductory Bio-Thaumaturgy, did you? As I remember, you did about two terms of the Intermediate course, much later. You missed my first lecture. That’s the story I use to entice our jaded young knowledge-hunters onto the road of this noble science.” Vermishank spoke in a completely deadpan voice. Isaac felt his distaste return with interest. “Calligine disappeared,” Vermishank continued. “Went off flying south-west, towards the Cacotopic Stain. Never seen again.”

There was another long silence.

“Uh…is that the whole story?” said Isaac. “How did they get the wings on him? Did he keep experimental notes? What was the Remaking like?”

“Oh, horribly difficult, I’d imagine. Calligine probably got through a few experimental subjects before getting his sums right…” Vermishank grinned. “Probably called in a few favours with Mayor Mantagony. I suspect a few felons sentenced to death had a few more weeks of life than they’d expected. Not part of the process that he advertised. But it stands to reason, doesn’t it, that it’s going to take a few tries before you get it right. I mean, you’ve got to connect up the mechanism to bones and muscles and whatnot that haven’t a clue what they’re supposed to be doing…”

“But what if the muscles and bones did know what they were doing? What about if a…a wyrman or something, had its wings cut off. Could they be replaced?”

Vermishank gazed passively at Isaac. His head and eyes did not move.

“Ha…” he said faintly, eventually. “You’d have thought that was easier, wouldn’t you? It is, in theory, but it’s even harder in practice. I’ve done some of this with birds and…well, with winged things. First off, Isaac, in theory it’s perfectly possible. In theory, there is almost nothing which can’t be done with Remaking. It’s all just a question of wiring things up right, a bit of flesh-moulding. But flight’s horribly hard because you’re dealing with all sorts of variables that have to be exactly right. See, Isaac, you can Remake a dog, sew a leg back on, or mould it on with a clayflesh hex, and the animal’ll limp along happily. Won’t be pretty, but it’ll walk. Can’t do that with wings. Wings have to be perfect or they won’t do the trick. It’s harder to teach muscles that think they know how to fly to do the same trick differently than it is to teach muscles that haven’t any idea in the first place. Your bird or what have you, its shoulders get all confused by this wing which is just a tad the wrong shape, or the wrong size, or based on different aerodynamics, and it ends up being totally stymied, even assuming you’ve reconnected everything up right.

“So the answer, I suppose I’m saying, Isaac, is that yes it can be done. This wyrman, or whatever, can be Remade to fly again. But it isn’t likely. It’s too damn hard. There’s no bio-thaumaturge, no Remaker, who could promise a result. Either you’re going to have to find Calligine, get him to do it,” hissed Vermishank in conclusion, “or I wouldn’t risk it.”

Isaac finished scribbling notes and flipped his notebook closed.

“Thanks, Vermishank. I was sort of…hoping you’d say that. That’s your professional opinion, eh? Well, I’ll just have to pursue my other line of enquiry, of which you wouldn’t approve at all…” His eyes bulged like a naughty boy’s.

Vermishank nodded very slightly and a sickly little smile grew and died on his mouth like a fungus.

“Ha,” he said faintly.

“Right, well, thanks for your time…Appreciate it…” Isaac flustered as he stood to go. “Sorry to be so fleeting…”

“Not at all. Any other opinions needed?”

“Well…” Isaac paused with his arm half into his jacket. “Well. Have you heard of something called dreamshit?”

Vermishank raised an eyebrow. He leaned back in his chair and chewed his thumb, looking at Isaac with half-closed eyes.

“This is a university, Isaac. Do you think a new and exciting illicit substance would sweep the city and none of our students would be tempted? Of course I’ve heard of it. We had our first expulsion for selling the drug less than half a year ago. Very bright young psychonomer, of predictably avant-garde theoretical persuasion.

“Isaac, Isaac…for all your many, uh, indiscretions…” a little simper pretended unconvincingly to rob the insult of its barb “-I wouldn’t have had you down as a…a drug person.”

“No, Vermishank, nor am I. However, living and operating in the quagmire of corruption that I’ve chosen, surrounded by lowlifes, and vile degenerates, I tend to be faced with things like drugs at the various sordid orgies I attend.” Isaac told himself off for losing his patience at the same moment that he decided there was nothing to be gained from further diplomacy. He spoke loudly and sarcastically. He rather enjoyed his ire.

“So anyway,” he continued, “one of my disgusting friends was using this bizarre drug and I wanted to know more about it. Obviously shouldn’t have asked someone so high-minded.”

Vermishank was chuckling soundlessly. He laughed without opening his mouth. His face remained set in a sour smirk. He kept his eyes on Isaac. The only sign that he was laughing was the little shucking motion of his shoulders and his slight rocking back and forth.